by Stephen R. Smith | Jun 9, 2023 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
I’d never dreamed before, at least not that I could remember.
Sure, a lifetime in that chair, I’d hoped for things, but that’s different. Sleep was always empty, vacant. Dreamless.
Ever since I’ve become a retread, the visions have been relentless. This reclaimed meatsuit must have been saturated in deeply emotional experiences, and when they bleached it, some of them didn’t wash out.
Most of these meatsuits come from habitual offenders; death row inmates, the irredeemable dregs of society. Their family gets a payout, they get off the hook early, and people like me born with a body broken in all the wrong places get another chance.
Retread.
I don’t know where this meatsuit came from, and the plastics work had all been done before I moved in, so I can’t even track down the history by likeness, but there’s something about these fragments that I see when I close my eyes that are undeniable, unavoidable, unnerving.
Standing here, now, at this intersection, I can understand why.
The wreaths are still wired to the guardrail, and the crosses, while leaning, remain stuck in the dirt.
Despite all efforts to wash it away – wind, rain, time – the evidence remains. Undeniable. Unavoidable.
If I close my eyes, the road, the railing, her eyes. It’s all so clear to me now.
I understand how someone could want not to relive these memories, be prepared to not inhabit this body anymore to be free of them.
I don’t blame them.
In time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stay in here with them either.
by submission | Jun 8, 2023 | Story |
Author: Paul Cesarini
Den leaned back in his chair, wishing he were someplace else. The sole lightbulb in his “office” flickered defiantly, daring him to try to fix it. He looked up at the bulb but didn’t budge. He’d much rather be home with his wife and his son. Their dog. Those were simpler times, he thought. Back then, my biggest problem was trying to figure out why the sprinkler system wasn’t working, he thought. My big To-Do list – that somehow occupied my weekends – was maybe going to the lumber store, maybe mowing the lawn. Grilling. Real first-world problems, he thought, shaking his head.
He remembered actually getting upset with his son about him forgetting to wipe his shoes before he entered the house. Seriously. Admittedly, most of that was a show for his wife. If it was important to her, it was important to him by default. Still, he actually made a big deal out of something as utterly trivial as that. We were complacent as hell back then, he thought.
Entitled. Pampered, even.
Now, his wife was gone. Almost certainly dead, like nearly everyone he knew. Their house was gone, as was most of their town. That lumber store? Gone. His son – like all other able-bodied males 13 and older – was enlisted and doing his part to help save the world. He wondered if he was still stationed in New Mexico, or if that had fallen, too. He hadn’t heard any chatter from there in weeks, but that wasn’t necessarily atypical for regions that far apart. Each remaining division was almost an island now, cut off from all but the most local communications.
No Internet anymore. No cell towers. No satellite phones. No functioning GPS that he was aware of. Strictly shortwave now, and maybe forever. But how much longer is “forever” now? A year or two? Months? Weeks?
And I got mad. Because he forgot to wipe. His shoes…
by submission | Jun 7, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
That frozen day, the father glowered at his son hunched over the laptop in the kitchen. “This is no way to earn a living.”
The teenager leaned further into his screen dancing with code.
“You’re not even dressed. How is this right?”
The keyboard clacked in answer.
“Look at me. I deserve that. You would not have this house, that laptop. Any damn technology if not for me.” The father’s crooked forefinger jabbed towards the back window rimmed with winter. “Every day I was out there. There! In the cold. In the heat. Day and night with my tools. Crowbar, screwdriver, baseball bat. Picking locks. Breaking doors. Bashing heads. Long hours. Many, many people looking to bash my head in, too. Do you hear me?”
The son nodded incidentally.
The father reached for the laptop and the son deftly pulled it out of his reach.
“I should crush it. It’s taught you nothing about the world. Nothing about what it takes to survive. Typing on a keyboard, trying to steal from miles away. Continents away. You learn nothing about crime unless you look your victim in the eye. Like choking a man you’ve never seen take a single breath. Before you take it away…forever.”
The son set his laptop to the side. “Really, papa. This again? The good old days? When robbing people was hard work. When criminals had to earn it. I’ve heard that playlist before. But I know you’ve never bashed in anyone’s head, let alone strangle them. I know you and your pals are nothing but petty criminals. Like me.”
He turned the laptop, so his father could see. “I’m a dime a dozen. Like thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, out there hustling on the web. That’s where commerce lives now, so that’s where crime lives now. I’m a flea, a louse, a tick, trying to latch on and suck a few drops before the greedy beast notices and tries to crush me. I’m not noble. You’re not. We’re just part of the underbelly, the part of the circle of life we’d rather move past.”
The father looked beyond his son, out the window, to the bare trees, the dirty piled snow, a sky without definition. “It’s what I know. What do I have to give you then?”
The son followed his father’s gaze and closed the laptop. “Papa. You gave me reality. An understanding that this world is not just. That I have to take what I want. My crimes, my tools, are different than yours. I know you wanted a better life for me. These tools give it to me.”
“But I have no part in that kind of life. Your virtual world. I can teach you nothing there. For a father that’s worse than criminal. Worse than doing time.”
A strong gust scoured the piled snow and rattled the windows. “Winter is a kind of prison,” the son remarked. “What do criminals in prison do?’
The father scoffed. “Brag. Brag about what they did. What they’ll do when they get out. Bigger and badder crimes. Bragging is how crooks dream. About good old times and how to get them back. Like you said, we’re a dime a dozen.”
“Exactly the point I’m hoping you see, papa. A dime a dozen. Doesn’t sound like much, but how many dozens are in a billion? In seven billion? That’s a Switzerland of dimes. A massive fortune in small change ripe for pickpocketing. Virtually. For my generation, the big score is no more. It’s about milking the long tail.”
“Milking a tail?”
“Stealing almost microscopic amounts over a very long time from millions and millions of accounts. It adds up. Like your stories of taking tiny nips from your dad’s bottle of Scotch when you were my age. He never noticed the “angel’s breath” you sipped. You weren’t greedy, so you slipped under the radar. That’s what you taught me.”
“None of this is right. None of this makes sense.” The father went to the window and stared out. “But what can one do?” He cocked his head as if listening to something. A microsecond later the furnace coughed into life and warm air pushed into the kitchen.
Both father and son shivered.
by submission | Jun 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Ed Lazer
Lew was panting by the time he opened the door. It was 98 degrees outside, and the cool air gave him a chill. Lew noticed the new concession stands as he made his way to the restroom. Even the bathroom was updated – brighter, cleaner, smelling of pine needles. He peed and washed his hands and face. The old sign was still above the hand dryer:
LOOKING FOR A WAY OUT?
• Are you being abused?
• Are you being forced to do work for no pay?
• Are you being forced to have sex?
WE CAN HELP. CALL 888-555-1212
Lew was deciding between a burger and a chicken sandwich as he headed for the exit. He walked down the short hall, took a left, but found himself back in the bathroom.
“What the hell?”
Same bathroom, different people. A father hustled his son from the hand dryer to the exit. Lew followed behind, went down the hall, turned left, and entered the bathroom—again. This time it was darker. One light above the sinks was out, another blinked. The people were seedier, the smell of stale urine overpowering. A guy with ragged clothes holding a “Please Help” sign stared at him.
Lew ran to the exit and down the hall again with the same result. Except now, the bathroom was even gloomier, and the toilets and garbage bins were overflowing. The floor was wet and filthy. The guy with the sign was still eying him. Now it read, “Abandon all hope.”
Lew panicked. He went to the sink, splashed cold water on his face and tried to calm down. He went to the drier and looked up at the sign. It had changed.
LOOKING FOR A WAY OUT?
• Are you stuck in a cycle of despair?
• Have you lost hope that your life will get better?
• Are you unable to find an exit?
WE CAN HELP. CALL 111-111-1111
Lew fumbled for his phone and punched in the number. It rang three times.
“Restoration Services. How can we help you?”
Lew stammered. “I can’t get out of the bathroom! I try to leave, and I keep ending up in the same place. Except it’s darker and dirtier, and I’m losing my mind!”
“I see, can I have your name please?”
“Lew Laszlo.”
“Yes, we can help you. Proceed to the exit, and this time do not take your right hand off the wall as you make your way out.”
“Hey, you!” yelled the sign man. “Where do you think you’re going? Get back here!”
Lew ran toward the exit. He kept his right hand on the wall, holding the phone in his left. The hall got progressively darker until there was no light at all.
“Are you still there?” Lew shouted.
“Yes, you’re doing fine. Just keep going.”
“How much farther?” Lew yelled.
“NEAR!” the voice shouted. Someone pounded into Lew’s chest, and he almost fell. The hall seemed endless.
“Are you still there? How much longer?” Lew gasped.
“I’m HERE, you’re NEAR.” the voice yelled. Again, someone smashed into his chest. Lew dropped his phone and lost contact with the wall.
Lew felt like he was floating. Voices were getting louder in the hallway. The light was getting brighter, but everything was blurry. Lew felt something on his face. He was jostled as shapes hovered around him. Suddenly, he felt a warm blast. His vision finally came into focus, and he saw the flashing lights of the waiting ambulance.
by Julian Miles | Jun 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Standryl looks down from the walkway. It’s like peering into one of those curio shops on a winter evening – corridors of angular junk filled with mysterious shadows and twinkling lights – except here, every constellation of lights is an old spaceship. The perspective is deceptive, too. The ‘corridor’ he’s looking down is many kilometres long, running parallel to the north-south axis of this satellite.
He turns to his guide, a cyborg so old all its biological components have mummified. It sounds like old dresses crinkling when it moves.
“Tell me how he did it.”
The voice is dry as well. Completely toneless. But the eyes brighten as it tells the tale.
“The Jessop family operated a salvage operation back on Old Earth. When humans went into space, Horace Jessop figured they’d make the same messes they had on their home planet, just spread over a bigger area. He started operating a salvage service, where one of the Jessop Wrecking ships would go anywhere – for a fee – and take away space junk.”
Standryl watches a robo-tracer drift by, locator beeping softly as it seeks the particular make and model of ship a spacer tasked it to find.
“I recall he was famous for the volume of stuff he cleared up. Wasn’t there something shady about that? Accusations of fraud?”
“Yes. The base claim was that the recycled material he returned to market was only a fraction of what he took in. Tenuous theories of unsafe practices used in the disposal of gravitic cores and similar perilous scrap were built on suspicion and guesswork. But, apart from the raw numbers being largely correct, nothing criminal or dangerous was ever found. Jessop Wrecking returned thirty percent of its salvaged material to market. What happened to the rest became the topic of media speculation and fictional accounts for decades.”
“Then the wars rolled in.”
“Yes. All Jessop Wrecking ships were destroyed during the defence of Shargyn in the First Conflict. By the time the Third Conflict collapsed into the Great Retreats, there was nothing left of the company. Other wreckers catered to the demand. A demand that had changed. After the depletions of war, resources were scarce. Recommissioning and repair became the thing. Scarcity of old ship parts made it a lucrative business. Spacers started scouring former battle zones and debris fields.”
“Soon after that started, Alison Bant found this, and you.”
“Yes. She was unique. Spent days talking with me, then disappeared for a few months while she changed her name, found two investors, and bought the Jessop Wrecking name back from GalactaBank. The launch of this facility was spectacularly successful.”
“This is the place Horace stored all the ships he didn’t recycle?”
“Yes. In addition to predicting a need for salvaging, he was also sure a need for spare parts would develop, made all the more keen by the long serviceable lifespans of spaceships. He was right. This facility was used to store every vessel in eighty percent or better completion, but impractical or too costly to return to service at the time. He knew he’d never see this place open its docks, but he also knew it would.”
Amazing long-term vision.
“What was he like?”
The cyborg turns to face him.
“A fat man with a love of brandy trifle and fried vat-grown herring. He never drank hot drinks, and was a cheerful player of ancient boardgames who’d quite literally play for days if uninterrupted.”
The venerable companion droid turns to gaze downwards.
“He called this view ‘fascinating’.”
It pauses.
“I wish I could have salvaged him, too.”
by submission | Jun 4, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
“Life is sweet at the edge of a razor”
-Tom Waits
I was sitting on the levee in the hot sun listening to a trickling sound. Near me, a man was taking a leak in a desiccated bush. I watched the sun turn his stream a brilliant gold, reminiscent of that Frost poem about fleeting beauty. I could mistake the sound of the man’s stream for the once great river lying like Ezekiel’s bones in front of me.
I lit a cigarette and thought, “Oh, Mississippi, where have you gone? Shall your waters rise again like some cursed Confederate cause, climbing up from our undead past?”
Across the river, brown smoke hung low over the threadbare casino and the derelict marine terminal. I recognized that smoky smell as a scent of burning brush. Why anyone wanted a fire amidst this infernal heat was a mystery to me, and I inhaled and held my breath until the ash in my lungs made me cough.
The pissing man moved on, walking back toward the big Arch. I watched him for several minutes until he resembled a beetle beneath it. Then that giant horseshoe lifted him into the sky like a soldier winkling a meal from a stinking shell. Up he went and disappeared into the maw of the old observation deck.
If you are not from my city, you might find it hard to believe that an inanimate object, a monument made by men, might eat its own. But the fruit of man has an appetite, and his cities are organisms.
I walked down into the riverbed. There has been no water anywhere near the levee for months. What remained was a tiny stream, a trickle like some blessed spring. People had gathered in groups, dropping plastic bottles into that trickle, collecting its fluids for survival. At first, no one believed the river would go away, that one day they would have to drink their urine. No one could accept that the great Mississippi would abscond. So, they left the river catfish to suffocate in the sun. They left their whiskers for the birds and started shooting pigeons and seagulls because the Mississippi River catfish had followed the Dodo onto the happy hunting grounds.
Don’t ask me to explain the logic of my people: they would kill for a catfish now. They scour the river bottom for anything digestible. I have seen little children lie in the dirt and eat it like those rebels we learned to mock. Nor does it matter that the dirt is filled with silicates and poisoned by fertilizer. No one thinks about the future; appetite is our commanding officer.
I walk over to a clear spot beside the trickle. I crouch on my haunches and put my cracked fingers in the stream until the skin feels moist, then I suck on them like they are coated in ketchup and brown sugar. The water is warm, so I slather my fingers in it and imagine I am dining out.
I sit down and don’t get up for hours. At one point, I feel the shadow of the Arch creeping up my back. The monument likes to cross the Mississippi in the afternoon to cope with its own boredom. I close my eyes and concentrate on the beast. I can see it lifting its legs, taking wobbly steps down the hill toward the river. In my head, I ask it to piss on all of us because the waste of monuments is like the ambrosia of Gods. I know that if the Arch took a leak, it would save us all from starvation. After all, why shouldn’t the works of men save their creators? Not every invention is a Frankenstein or HAL 9000.
I see the Arch trip, fall, and faceplant in the riverbed, driving a few people into the mud. I wait for it to get up, but the Arch stays down in the dirt for days. I watch the sun set, the moon rise, and satellites crisscross the sky like distracted stars. I want to pull down everything I see and suck on it. Perhaps the night sky is peppered with granules of salt. But no matter how far I extend my arms, everything remains out of reach.
Then something interesting happens. The Arch, which I realize is either dead or comatose, has left behind two gaping holes in the earth. Bones have sprung up from the spot where it stood, and they begin branching out like Joshua trees. These bones, spiny at first, are soon enfleshed. I can smell their meat and skin cooking in the sun.
The bones reach a human height and, like soldiers, form a line to the north and the south. I count at least three dozen of them, with trunks of a human width. On their fleshy branches, flowers bloom with blossoms that smell like dead game. The blossoms burst, revealing fruits shaped like livers, kidneys, and other organs. I walk over to the trees, pluck a duodenum, and bite into it. It tastes metallic.
I open my eyes and find the Arch lying face down in the petrified river. What I thought was a vision was actually an observation. Bone trees are rustling in the ghiblih breeze, their giblet fruits swaying from brittle branches. I leave the Mississippi trickle, hike up to the trees, pluck one fruit, and take a bite. I break a tooth.
In my hand, I am holding a piece of metal, a segment of the Arch.
